


Habits

by Feran_Sensei



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: ;v; perfect boys, M/M, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Will add tags as I go, bad habits, but that's the point, connor likes dogs, duh - Freeform, okay but I promise it doesn't stay that way, struggle bus, sumo is like a service dog, they help each other through it, trigger warning, tubby Hank is best Hank, what a good boy :>, yeah it's gonna be taboo and uncomfortble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-05 13:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feran_Sensei/pseuds/Feran_Sensei
Summary: Connor's idea of humanity comes from experience: human interaction, conversations, and people watching; he gathers data and replicates results in order to integrate neatly into human society. However, Hank Anderson makes up about 76% of all his records on human quirks and what it truly means to be alive...And burying a bullet deep inside of your problems isn't always the best way to cope, but Connor's been watching closely, and gambling with life seems to him the only way to shut up his unwanted desires.---In which Connor picks up some of Hank's really bad habits.





	1. Wait For Me

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Sorry I keep editing this, but I felt this was really important.
> 
> This story contains SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS and/or ACTIONS, descriptions of DEPRESSION and ANXIETY.
> 
> If this upsets you, please do not read. Also, if you have suicidal thoughts or have thought of hurting yourself in any way, PLEASE!! SEEK HELP. You are worth it and I love you. Don't give up, okay? You can make it, I believe in you. Just hold on <3 *USA hotline and link at the bottom notes*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know I used "to" instead of "too" somewhere but I can't find it now >:0  
> If you see it, tell me please? xD <3 Cuz that's gonna bother me all damn day.

     Dark room, shadows thick enough to drown out sound. Water dripping, windows rattling from the rain that beat against the house like it was a hard case to crack. Night sky a solid sheet of slate slashed with the spray of neon lights that coughed up faint stars so dim they became obsolete.

     Eyes firm, brow set to determination as he stared down the barrel wondering what it was exactly that came after pulling the trigger. Hank had asked him once, had laughed and spat _"Android Heaven"_ as though it were a curse, sarcasm thick on his tongue and the stink of booze bellowing out with frosted breaths; they were all white huffs and melancholy, puffing just enough to blur the vibrant self-hatred that the Lieutenant tried so hard to hide in those beautifully somber blue eyes.

     And Connor didn't know. Hank had watched him, hands shaking--from the cold or from the agony that Connor had often caught him indulging in, he couldn't tell--bullet loaded against his fabricated skull, desperately demanding that he reveal what comes after death. And Connor realised that it was never about his lack of humanity, but rather Hank's frantic attempts to hold on to his own.

     But Connor didn't know. Hank wanted him to know. Needed him to know. So he'd said _"Nothing",_ eyes wide, cheeks cold, and heart thumping against a metal chest.

     Yet, to Connor’s dismay--despite this newfound risk of oblivion--Hank stubbornly continued to gamble against fate; he played his game, whiskey in hand and vomit on the linoleum floor.

     Revolver against soft skin, photograph sat upright with a forever young face and smiling eyes forever lost; smokey hair hanging over threadbare perseverance.

_Click._ Nothing. _Spin._

_Click._ Nothing. _Spin._

     Connor had learned from the best.

     Metal against his cold, _lifeless_ flesh. LED flashing dangerous crimson, and the house suddenly felt so alone; it was an apartment fit for two that barely showed signs of one: clean pressed sheets tucked against the bed frame, couch cushions proper, and a table set for two with only one chair occupied.

     The air clung to the walls, high in corners near the ceiling and Connor imagined that if he were human he’d be suffocating.

     Human. _If only. If only._

     There was no one there to ask him what was wrong. No Hank to call out his name and mock him in that gentle, jesting way that he’s come to love him for. No Sumo to nudge his leg with his nose to distract him for a while with soft pats and canine huffs. Just the silence and the multitude of error indicators that reminded him bitterly that androids weren't allowed to brandish firearms.

     But _they_ couldn’t gossip the secret of his midnight game; stuck in his head, forever nagging him about what he could never be.

_If only._

     One shot, two. No bullet came and all he could think of was the stagnant taste that clung in his throat like smoke from a plastic-fueled fire. Vile, retched self-loathing; hands stained blue but fingertips dyed red, aching parts and pieces and pumps that hummed the shame that comes with being alive. Exposed wires and flickering sparks as dead, grey eyes stared into nothingness.

     He did this. It was _his_ fault.

     Another spin, eyes closed when the chilled metal pushed against his temple, gunpoint leaving circular imprints in his synthetic skin as he tapped it wearily against his face. He let out a sigh soft enough that the silence swallowed it, pressure on the trigger.

     A quick scan; this one would kill him.

     Suddenly his vision lit up under his eyelids, a notification pending.

** >[CALL INCOMING: LIEUTENANT ANDERSON]<**

     He hesitated, chest tightening, arm raised, gun trembling.

     He answered.

     “‘Bout damn time you picked up. Were you asleep or somethin’?” And just the sound of his voice was enough to send a wave of nausea ripping through him. His throat clenched, finger tight against his villainous salvation. “Connor, you there?”

     “Hank,” Saline tears ran down his cheeks, brow knit, and eyes dead panned on the opposite wall. White. Blank.

     Nothing. _“There would be nothing.”_

     “I can’t do this, Hank. I can’t. _Please--”_ He let out a choked sob, stomach queasy, his vision blurred, “Please _help.”_ The gun slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a dull metallic _clang._ It was deafening in the silence.

     “Connor? Connor, what’s going on?” He held his head in his hands, elbows digging painfully into the table, artificial lungs heaving heavily, the peeled back skin of his knuckles gleaming smoothly in the dimmed light of the kitchen. He didn’t need to breathe, but he couldn’t; didn’t feel emotion, but it was choking him.

     “I’m comin’, alright? I’m leaving the house right now, you just hang on. Don’t move, don’t do anything. I’m coming, Connor, just don’t hang up.” His vision was a scattered night sky cluttered with notifications and system errors. Warnings flashed methodically against his view in bright, threatening symbols.

** >[STR3SS LEV3LS--% ** 01000011 01110010 01101001 01110100 01101001 01100011 01100001 01101100 **{$ELF-D3STRUCT IMM!N3NT--REP0RT TO CYB3RLIFE T0 I%IT!ATE SY$T3M*SHUTD@WN^] <**

     He didn’t want this. Didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve--

     “H-Hank…”

     “I’m here, Con. I’m coming, don’t worry, alright?” From beyond the call he could hear the creaky door of Hank’s car slam shut, the engine roaring to life with muffled integrity as the familiar jostling of car keys against Hank’s knee made his chest pang with a sort of reminiscent sadness.

     Connor swallowed hard, his mouth feeling far too dry, his eyes feeling far too full, and his stomach feeling far too hollow. He didn’t deserve this kindness that Hank seemed to so readily lay at his feet. He hated androids. He hated _Connor,_ he knew that. He’d always known that.

     So why did it hurt so bad to hear him call out his name? Why did the thought of Hank seeing him now make his lungs fill with mud and his mind slosh like swampy waters? He clenched his fists, the tips of his fingers digging in and dragging down the sides of his face, the skin peeling back and reforming as he did. He swallowed hard, listening to Hank’s constant speech on the other side of the line; his husky, broken voice chanting the non-stop _I’m coming-s_ and _Don’t hang up-s_.

     He couldn’t want this.

     “Please don’t come, Lieutenant.”

     “No! Connor, no! _Don’t you dare--!”_

** >[D!SCO%N3CTED]<**

\---

_“Fuck!”_ Hank slammed his free hand on his steering wheel and hurled his useless phone into the floorboards of the vacant passenger seat as it beeped harshly, the line lost. The streets of Detroit were eerily dead, the dark buildings towering like black phantoms against the arbitrary sky, whizzing by as Hank sped through a barren city. The evacuation ensured that the only people still around were either not biologically human, or were stupidly stubborn enough to stay.

     Hank was one of them. As long as Connor stayed, Hank would always be one of them; an unmovable skyscraper who chose to live amongst hollow ghosts and forlorn snowdrifts.

     “Don’t do this, Con,” He hissed at his frosted windshield, breath cloudy and body trembling as he ran every red light, daring to push his car even faster. The road was covered in a thin layer of frost, flurried snowflakes falling and covering everything with a heavy sense of dread. It was all a facade, a mask of pale paper skin to cover the city’s pounding heartbeat of anxiety, and Hank knew it all too well; knew the sickness behind the untouched luster, the secrets that winter habitually tried to stow away, “Fuck, don’t do this. Please _wait_ for me.”

     Because Hank knew.

     The brokenness in his words, the desperation in his silence. Hank had heard those cries before, had uttered those same destitute pleas, and he knew the sounds of giving up as though they poured from his throat like a song stuck on repeat.

     He was a master of the game, a longstanding survivor of _Russian Roulette,_ and he knew Connor was one step away from losing his chips.

     The apartment complex came into view. It was an old, tired building, all rusted bricks with awkwardly perfect window frames that were lidded from hungover shadows and parted curtains. Hank didn’t bother parking; he pulled up by the doors and cut the engine, dropping his keys as he threw himself from the car, not bothering to look where they fell. He rushed to the entrance, slipping on the ice and cursing as he fumbled inside and headed straight for the stairs.

_To hell with the elevator._

     His footsteps echoed thunderously throughout the narrow stairwell. His lungs heaved and his thighs burned as he skipped pairs of concrete steps to reach the third floor. One heavy door labeled _2_ and his heart was pounding harder than he thought possible. He urged himself faster, not caring when he mistepped and slammed his shin into the edge of a stair, scrambling to his feet and pulling himself up faster.

_Up. Up. Keep going._

     He burst through the door, sprinting down the hall to the apartment labeled _5-C._ And against all of his rushing blood, scrambled thoughts, and aching body; against all of the insistent desperation that had driven him this far in a frenzied panic, Hank hesitated.

     The door was slightly ajar with cold, off-white light filtering dimly into the orange-glow hallway.

     It was as though his knees locked up and his lungs refused to breathe; as though the air were thinner here, fleeing from the horrid acts taken place within. He wasn’t sure what he’d find within, wasn’t sure if he could take it. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, not able to take the breath that he wanted as he pushed hard against his subconscious’ resolve. He grabbed the handle, hands trembling against the frigid metal as he slowly pushed open the door.

     Without a sound, he entered, the room being almost as cold as the abyss of the outside world. His chest tightened, the room dark.

     “Con?” He tried to call, but his lungs refused to work and instead came out as a breathy whisper. He took slow steps forward, inching his way towards the kitchen where the only bit of light in the house came from. He stopped in the doorway.

     His heart sank, his mind drawing a blank as he stood there, mouth open as if to say something, but nothing came out.

     Connor sat beneathe the small, round table, bare legs pulled hard against his chest with his head dropped carelessly atop his knees. His shoulders shook, and Hank’s chest fluttered in a sickening combination of relief and sorrow.

     “Connor…” Hank rushed over to him, dropping to his knees and grabbing the sides of his face to make him to look up at him. His face was soaked from constant tears, his expression contorted into one of pain. Hank felt his voice catch in his throat, his chest tightening until his choked name once again escaped his lips, “Connor.”

     He pulled him out from under the table and forced him against his chest, cradling his head and rubbing his back as he felt the way his chest rose and fell erratically from simulated sobs. Connor lifted his own arms beneathe Hank’s and held him tight enough to hurt, his snow covered coat clenched mercilessly in his fists.

     “I-I’m so s-sorry, Hank,” He buried his face in the crook of the Lieutenant’s neck, cherishing the feeling of his large hands against his back and threading gently through his hair, “I’m sorry for everything. It’s all my fault.”

     They were swaying slightly, rocking back in forth in a sort of disbelieving uncertainty. And Hank held him tighter, hushing him when he spoke.

     “It’s not your fault, Con. It’s alright, okay? It’s over now.” He pulled back just enough to see Connor’s face, hands back to either side of his jaw, brushing thumbs slowly against tear-stained cheeks. He pulled him closer, setting their foreheads together in a silent moment of calm. He relaxed against the touch, feeling Hank’s breaths against his lips, feather-light and warm, still smelling slightly of alcohol from a casual beer he’d had earlier in the evening.

     And, god, but Connor wanted to kiss him. He wanted to feel those chapped lips against his own, feel the scruff of Hank’s unkept beard brush against his face, and his throat, and against the palms of his hands. He wanted to feel _Hank._ Wanted to hold him and cherish him and never let him go. He wanted the safety that being with someone brings.

     But that was selfish of him. An android and a human? What could he possibly give? And as if Hank being suicidal wasn’t enough, now he had to worry about Connor getting overloaded and accidentally offing himself too; he’d only make Hank’s life far more miserable, make Hank’s bad habits only intensify.

     And even despite all this, he knew better. Hank would never love him as he did. To him they were just friends: sick, stubborn, impossibly dysfunctional friends both intoxicated on the promises of false hope. And Connor knew that he should probably stay away, but Hank was coursing through his veins and just the thought of leaving was enough to send him into withdrawl.

     Hank finally pulled away, the loss of warmth filling Connor’s chest with a dull ache. Why did he have to make everything better? Why couldn’t he just let him suffer on his own? He didn’t _want_ to live anymore--he didn’t want to cause Hank anymore pain--but somehow he always made it so hard to say no.

     “You okay?” It was low and gentle, firm hands resting against his shoulders as he looked up into Hank’s mesmerising blue eyes.

     “Yeah. Yeah I’m okay.” But he really wasn’t, his LED pulsing a steady, cautious yellow. He could see Hank glancing up at it and could tell that he was still worried.

     After a moment, Hank stood, lifting Connor with him as if making sure he were never more than an arms length away. He still had his hands on either of Connor’s arms and it made him nervous thinking about when Hank would let go.

     “Let’s go home.” Connor looked up at him confused and tired and altogether fed up with the day. He didn’t want to argue.

     “Okay,” He agreed, trying to give Hank a smile to reassure him that he was fine, but he didn’t quite make it, “Let’s go home.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. I just don't like YOU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank's on the struggle bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing style changes a lot depending on my mood, so sorry if some chapters are written lyrically and others are written with tons of description vs others with lots of dialogue :00

    He wasn’t sure why he’d brought him here, but now with the car parked and the house beckoning expectantly like a haven from the bone-deep cold, there was no turning back. There was a sickness hanging over the both of them, thick and heavy like a frozen midnight fever dream, and Hank knew that bringing him here would only make it worse. He was contagious too, after all, and he supposed he was the one that gave it to him in the first place.

    When he’d seen Connor so broken and pitiful, weeping on the floor of his kitchen as Hank himself had done so many times before, his first thought was to get him away. To get him out of that apartment, as far as possible from the nasty feelings that made him think death was his only reprieve. So he’d brought him to his house, but now that they had actually arrived, he realised that it was just as dark, just as dirty, just as infected.

    He’d need to hide his revolver.

    Hank sighed, quiet and pitiful as he closed his eyes and sat still for a long moment. His leg ached from hitting against the step at the apartment, and he thought absentmindedly that he probably had a bruise. Outside, the snow had turned back into the messy rain it had been earlier in the day, and he wondered what the hell God was playing at. The ground was a mush of rain-water and sticky snow, a slosh of cold mud stagnating in the yard that would be melting puddles in the grass by noon. It reflected his mood perfectly: up and down, back and forth, and always a mess in the end.

    He opened his eyes to stare out the window. The morning sun was just beginning to appear from behind Detroit’s city skyline, hidden behind the taller building in the distance that smothered Hank’s quaint house in shadows. The black of the sky was slowly fading into a pastel pink, and the lack of sleep was really starting to take its toll.

    Taking one final moment to decide where he was going to stash his gun and ammo, Hank shifted slightly in his seat, the thick silence hanging over them like an awkward confession. Connor hadn’t said anything, let alone moved more than an inch, and Hank was afraid that he was worse off than he appeared.

     But what could he say? He knew there wasn’t anything that could help, at least nothing that he could do. When people learned that he’d tried to kill himself--and they somehow seemed to always find out--it was the same old shit every time: “But you have so much to live for”, or “You need to move on”, “It’ll get better.”

_“I can’t live like this anymore, Hank. You’ve fallen apart, and I can’t keep picking up your pieces. ”_

     He shook his head, shoving the memory aside. He didn’t need to think about any of that anymore. He had Connor to worry about now, and he wouldn’t be the one to leave when he needed him the most.

     “Let’s get you inside, okay?” Connor didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even go to open his door, so when Hank got out of the car and he was still sitting there, he supposed he hadn’t heard him. He ducked his head back into the door, light rain droplets falling against the back of his coat as cold air gusted into the cabin of the car, “Con, you alright?”

     “I don’t have to stay, Lieutenant.” Connor didn’t look at him, only stared down at his lap as he had ever since getting in. From this angle, Hank could see his LED which still adamantly refused to change from that steady, spinning yellow.

     “What are you talkin’ about? It’s fine. I offered, so don’t worry about it,” He pulled up the collar of his coat then grabbed the front and tried to shake off some of the rain, “And there’s no way in hell I’m leavin’ you by yourself.” Connor’s LED stopped spinning and blinked a couple times, and Hank wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

     “I’m being a burden to you.” Hank’s chest panged solemnly hearing him say that, and it made him want to grab him and tell him he could be no such thing. Of all the things Connor had done for him, and he thought he was just a nuisance to him.

     This is what he gets for being such a hardass and refusing to just thank him every now and then.

 _Way to go, Anderson._ _Way to make a guy feel like shit._ Hank cleared his throat awkwardly.

     “You’re not a burden, Connor, alright? Now c’mon. Let’s just get inside before I freeze to death.” When Connor opened his car door, a light feeling of success swelled in his chest. Honestly, he was about to get back in the car and stay there as long as he needed him to, but all-in-all getting him inside was better for the both of them. He watched as Connor walked around the side of the car, standing straight legged and blank-faced as the rain slid nonchalantly down his chin and soaked into his neatly-pressed Cyberlife uniform. But Hank knew him, and he could see the slight sag in his shoulders, the minute scrunching of his brow, the helpless gleam in his eyes, “Okay. Alright, yeah.”

     Hank jogged up to the door, fumbling with his keys to unlock the deadbolt, glancing back to make sure Connor was coming. He walked slowly, following behind him, LED still cautious, and Hank’s stomach twisted, not entirely sure what he could do to reassure him that this was alright.

     When he turned the handle and opened the door, he was immediately pounced by the thick furry mess that was his impossibly spoiled Saint Bernard, and an idea struck him.

     Connor liked dogs, and what better way to get things off your mind than sitting on the couch in your boxers, watching some shitty TV program, and getting suffocated by a giant mess of lazy dog and canine stink breath? Hank glanced over at him, grinning when he saw the faint glimpse of a smile form on Connor’s pale lips.

     “Hey, boy,” He chuckled low and deep under his breath, trying to push the overly-excited dog off of him so he could get inside, “I know, I know. You were worried, but we’re fine alright? Now get the hell off me.”

 _We’re fine._ And Hank really hoped that would be the case, a sudden bout of nervousness swelling in his gut as he made it into the living room.

Everything was a mess. It was Hank’s house, of course everything was a mess, but it didn’t help that Sumo had anxiously rummaged through everything, worried about him rushing out the door so suddenly. He was a fatass and a lazy dog most of the time, but Hank knew there was a wisdom to him that made him uniquely special. He always seemed to know when something was wrong and would tug on Hank’s pant leg or nudge him slightly when he sensed him lulling out of it or drowning miserably in the things he couldn’t forget.

     “Dammit, Sumo.” He kicked aside a blanket that the dog had dragged off the couch and stuffed in front of the door. He glanced into the kitchen at the knocked over pizza boxes and old take-out that Sumo had tore through, “Sorry about the mess. He got a little nervous.” At least he didn’t decide the floor was his bathroom.

     “It’s okay.” Connor shut the front door, blocking the chill that was trying to engulf everything. He didn’t move far, bending down to let Sumo lick his face and attempt to crawl into his lap despite being three sizes too large. Hank watched them, noticing that he looked better already, if only a little. Hank headed into the kitchen, picking up the boxes and shoving them back onto the counter. He used the ripped up take-out boxes to scoop up a few of the noodles that Sumo hadn’t gotten to and threw them in the trash before taking off his shoes and tossing them into the corner. He slipped off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, returning to the living room where Connor was still being harrassed by the horse dog.

     “Why don’t you take your shoes off and sit on the couch? Sumo’ll sit up there with you, and it’s probably more comfortable that the floor.” Hank chuckled and Connor lifted his eyes to stare at him a moment, then looked at Sumo, then the couch, and then back to Hank. It was strange watching him sometimes, as though he were processing everything to make sure he did nothing wrong. Before he’d gone deviant, Hank noticed that all of his decisions were split-second. Calm, calculated, quick. No second guesses. Now though, it took him a lot longer to decide, like he was trying to give himself a reason to do it.

     “Alright. Okay, Hank.” He stood, Sumo whining, and slipped off his wet shoes. He walked matter-of-factly over to the couch and sat all pristine and proper, then looked up at him as if confirming it was right.

     “Shit well, I didn’t mean you had to.” Connor opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly closed his lips again, looking down at his lap and rubbing his hands together. Hank felt a pang of guilt, walking behind the couch and patted it gently to let Sumo know he could come up. The dog jumped next to Connor, settling beside him and falling lazily across his lap with his tongue hanging out of his big, slobbery mouth. Connor lifted a hand to pet the burly beast, smile noticeably absent from his lips, “Just do what you want, Con. If you wanna sit on the floor, you go right ahead.” He didn’t say anything, only nodded and continued to pet Sumo awkwardly. Hank felt bad, wanted to say something, but he was never any good at this kind of stuff.

     He turned back to the kitchen, leaning slightly against the back of the couch, and noticed his revolver sitting out on the table. Quickly, he glanced back at Connor. He needed to move it.

     “I’ll be right back, okay?” Connor snapped his head up to stare at him, LED suddenly flashing red before cycling back to yellow, lips parted, brow tight, “Whoa, whoa hey! I’m just going to take a piss, but I’ll hold it if you want me to stay.” He wasn’t expecting that. Connor frowned.

     “No. I’m fine, I just…” He looked back down to Sumo, lips pursed, “Sorry, I don’t know why I did that.”

     “It’s nothing wrong, you just scared me is all. You sure you’re good?” Hank put his hand on his shoulder, but Connor stiffened and he silently cursed himself as he pulled away.

     “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve got Sumo.” The dog wagged his tail at the sound of his name. Hank hesitated, but nodded.

     “Alright, but if you need anything--I mean anything, Con--you just yell for me, alright?”

     “You’ll only be gone for a minute, I can wait until you’re finished.”

     “Yeah, but I’ll run in here, pants around my ankles if I have to.” Connor paused for a moment and then chuckled and Hank stopped, his heart skipping a beat. He’d never heard Connor laugh before. Hell, he didn’t even know he _could_ laugh.

     “That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant.” Hank smiled and nodded.

     “Okay, then. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna change out of these clothes too. Find you something to wear so you stop getting my couch all wet.” He ruffled Connor’s hair quickly then went into the kitchen, frowning as he picked up his revolver and slipped his coat over it. He hated this game of secrets, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to it. Not now that Connor had relaxed a bit. It was heavy in his hand and suddenly he felt disgusted with himself. For bringing Connor here. For lying to him. For being such a damn hypocrite.

     He was being selfish, he knew. But Connor was the only one he had, and he didn’t think he could keep going without him.

     Hank went down the hallway, glancing at Connor as he passed, and turned into the bathroom. The door seemed to shut much louder than usual, like it were screaming _liar._ He really hated this.

     Bending down in front of the sink, he opened the lower cabinet and looked down at the revolver in his hand. Suddenly nothing made sense anymore. Not even a few hours ago, he would have gladly held the gun to his head, spinning the barrel in a fucked up attempt at ending his own life. He would’ve told anyone that tried to stop him to go fuck themselves, and he would’ve drunk himself into a stupor or at least until he couldn’t hold anymore down.

     And now? Now just the sight of it made his stomach feel sick and his heart feel shattered in a thousand different places because Connor had tried to kill himself.

     Connor had tried to _kill_ himself, and Hank had been the one to show him how.

     “Fuck,” He cursed under his breath, opening the chamber and taking out the single bullet. He shoved the gun in the back the cabinet and pocketed the bullet. He straightened the spare shampoo bottles and other random junk that was under there in an attempt to hide it more. Once satisfied, he stood and put his hands on either side of the sink, closed his eyes, and sighed wearily. Damn, he was tired.

     He looked up at the mirror, the mocking notes staring back at him with vibrant colours:

_Keep Smiling_

_Today Will be Fabulous_

_I’m not GRUMPY I just don’t like_ **_YOU_ **

     Hank frowned, and suddenly imagined Connor sitting in the living room. He imagined that strange laugh that sounded so out of place and that wet, messy hair and those stupid brown eyes.

     He imagined Connor alone and afraid with legs pulled against his chest and shoulders shaking. What if he hadn’t gotten there in time? What if--

     His stomach dropped and he ripped that last one off the mirror and crumpled it between his hands before throwing it at the trash bin. It bounced off the side and landed on the floor, all bright pink and laughing at him. He groaned, turning and opening the bathroom door to flee into his bedroom, away from the gun. Away from his lies.

     He didn’t bother closing the door, quickly changing out of his wet clothes and slipping on a random t-shirt and the sweatpants that he’d left on the floor. He rummaged around in his closet, looking for the old grey DPD Academy sweatshirt that he knew he had. He found an old pair of sweats that he’d thought he’d gotten rid of since they were too small for him now, and slung the hoodie over his shoulder as he held out the pants to guess if they would fit Connor.

     “Good enough.” He mumbled and stood with a groan, his leg aching and his body sore. He made his way down the hall, pulling the sweatshirt off of his arm, “Hey, I found something for you to wear.” But when he entered the living room, Connor was nowhere to be seen.

     Hank panicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I wasn't gonna end it like that, I swear. xD I was writing him walking into the room and I was like, "Hmmmm what is Connor doing...hmmm--AH! He's missing!" *types vigorously* "Ah, shit. Now I'm hungry." *Leaves keyboard for two hours* *doesn't finish typing the scene*
> 
> So I guess you guys are just gonna get a cliffhanger >:3 ily, pls dun eat me alive~ <3 This chapter is longer than the first one anyway xDD So you'll be okay *evil grin*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is having an identity crisis.

     Why did he think leaving him alone would be a good idea? Why didn’t he just stop to fucking _think!?_

     “Dammit, _dammit!”_ He threw the clothes onto the couch and rushed into the kitchen.

     Nothing.

     Hank’s heart sank like a stone dropped straight into his stomach. His mind was a discombobulated mess of curses and a violent spray of nauseous mahogany. He ran to the front door, ripping it open with a gust of frigid wind that numbed his cheeks and made his entire body shudder.

     “Connor!” He shouted into the yard, his frantic voice echoing dully off the swamp-water snow, grating against his ears like a deaf cry for help.

     He could be anywhere.

\----

     Connor had needed to think and Sumo had started whining at the door to be let out, so it only seemed fitting to take a walk.

     The sky was a dull, lifeless grey painted to perfection with long crimson rays that faded into the blanket of overcast clouds. The air was brisk, curtly kissing his cheeks as shushed raindrops fell against the cracked pavement, some turning into snowflakes midair and landing softly on his frost encrusted jacket. He could feel how his joints locked up as the cold seeped in-between, his fingers aching as they slightly stiffened and suddenly he remembered the zen garden.

     There had only been three moments in his far-too-short life that he’d ever been terrified to the point of disbelief, air trapped in his artificial lungs and mind locked up as though he’d gone into shutdown: his final moments with Amanda when he realised that he’d been used; in the broadcast tower when Hank’s chances of survival had dropped below fifty percent; and last night, his life almost casually discarded. Connor swallowed hard, stopping for a moment to let Sumo investigate a nearby fire hydrant, his mind swirling and stomach queasy.

     He could still feel the shaking of his hands, the pounding of his heart, the gun against his temple…

     “ _I’m coming, Connor, just don’t hang up.”_

     He’d never heard Hank so afraid.

     Connor closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath as he focused on the wind pulling at his hair and the rain drops falling against his face that chilled his metalic skin. He wished he could feel it. He wished it was more than just his imagination or the recollection of his flower-ridden mind playing tricks on him.

     Why did it have to be this way?

     He felt Sumo grip his pant leg in his large jaws and pull, causing him to open his eyes and stare down at him. The dog simply stared back, eyes a liquid ink, head tilted slightly, and tongue falling out cock-eyed from behind his tiny doggy teeth. Connor smiled at him.

     “I’m alright, Sumo.” He bent down to pet him, giving him a scratch behind the ear before deciding it was time to head back home, “We should get back before Hank starts to worry.”

     The methodic _click_ of his dress shoes against the pavement had an odd way of calming him, the sound syncing to the rhythm of his slow heartbeat, the smacking of Sumo’s nails like eighth-notes to his steady four count beat. And he wondered what Hank’s heart sounded like. Not that he’d never heard it before; he’d scanned the Lieutenant many times, but Connor wondered what it would be like to place his head against his chest and truly _listen_.

     He wanted to know what Hank felt like, to cherish the little sounds he tended to make. He wanted to know what he smelled like, to feel his warmth, the smoothness of his skin, the taste of his lips.

     Connor shook his head. It was pointless to think of these things. He knew that he would never fulfil the useless, nagging desires. Afterall, he could register warmth but he couldn’t _feel_ it. He could detect smell, but the fragrance always seemed to elude him. He could imagine, create his own picturesque fantasy, but there was only so much he could do with encrypted coding and a database full of second-hand descriptions. It was like viewing a lustrous garden only to later realise that it was a flat painted image all along.

     He let out a ineffectual sigh, shifting the coarse material of Sumo’s leash in his hand to get a better grip on the impatient dog.

     Many thoughts ran through his mind, but as they walked, he found himself settling on the cases that he’d investigated with Hank. He had enjoyed their time spent together, creating theories and chasing deviants, just the two of them. And that fact made a swirl of guilt pile up in his stomach; he’d enjoyed hunting his people like a wild animal tracking game. He had felt a rush of pride, a now sickening sort of high that he had reveled in when each deviant went down.

     He wondered if that made him just as bad as some of the many killers Hank had investigated.

     Shaking his head, he tried his best not to walk through puddles as Sumo dragged him through the yard and up the single stair of the front porch. The dog began to whine, pawing at the door as Connor bent down to unhook his leash. He reached for the handle to let him inside but before he could, the door swung open and Hank was standing in the doorway with an expression so tight and impossibly hard to read that Connor wasn’t sure if he recognized him at first. He stared at him for a long moment, and Connor stared back, not sure if he should say anything. A thick, uneasy air weighed heavily between them, and he wondered if a walk really had been the best idea.

     If he had been human, he could have just borrowed Hank's whiskey to clear his head...

     Sumo didn’t try to pounce his owner, he simply walked past his long, thin legs and made his way into the kitchen where he plopped down by his food bowl and tucked his head against his hands then looked at Connor as if saying, “ _Well, you fucked up_.”

     Hank was angry with him.

     He didn't have to be good at reading emotions to know when _Hank Anderson_ was pissed about something--the man never made it a point to hide it--but this was the first time Connor had ever seen a glare so fiercely silent that it made his breath stop and an uneasy fear swell in his chest.

     “Hank, I--”

 _“Get in here.”_ Connor’s stomach dropped as he hesitated then shuffled his way past Hank, his eyes glued to his hands that were squeezed together tightly. He’d been here less than three hours and already he was being a burden on him. He hadn’t meant to make him angry, but he knew he should’ve just stayed home. He should’ve just...

     The door closed heavily and he turned around to apologise when Hank grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him against his large chest. Connor’s mind froze.

     Hank was angry. Why wasn’t he yelling at him? Why wasn’t he _yelling_ at him?

     “I ought to fuckin’ strangle you.” But there was no menace in his words at all, instead coming out as a soft, broken whisper against Connor’s neck. Hank’s grip on him was tight enough to make his pressure sensors click on, a little yellow notification coming up to tell him that he was being held, suggesting several combat countermeasures that he’d been programed to execute.

     But Hank was _hugging_ him, and he didn’t understand why.

     After a long, silent moment, Hank loosened his grip on him and Connor pulled away to look at him. His face was still scrunched in a disappointed frown, but there was a pained look in his eyes that made Connor’s heart ache. He still didn’t understand.

     “Being as smart as you are, you’d think you could at least leave a fuckin’ note when you decide to go somewhere.” Hank had his hands lingering on his shoulders, something Connor registered that he did often almost like he wanted to make sure all of this was real. That he was really there, really okay. He realised he was worried about him.

     “I simply went on a walk, Lieutenant. I don’t understand why that has upset you.” Hank squeezed him arm, his face morphing into a scowl.

     “Well I dunno, smartass. I just stopped you from shooting yourself in the goddamned head not two or three hours ago and then you just suddenly up and fuckin’ disappear. No, I have no idea why that would upset me either.” He shook his head, letting Connor go as he reached a hand up to brush through his hair with a frustrated sigh.

     Connor didn’t know what to say, so he looked back down at his hands, an awkward sensation prickling at his eyes as he tightened his brow. He could feel Hank’s eyes on him and the gaze burned. Damn, he wished he had his coin.

     “But I texted you…” He hadn’t just left. He would never actually do that without telling Hank first.

     “Text?” Hank sounded incredulous, “Hell, Con. You know I don’t check my phone.” He chuckled, a weary sounding thing and Connor looked up at him and spoke quietly.

     “I know, but it was either that, fax you, or bother you while you were in the restroom. I didn’t want to interrupt you, so I took my chances with the text.” Hank sighed again.

     “Fax? Do I even have a fax machine?” Hank laughed wearily, “Alright, okay. Look, I’m sorry for gettin’ angry, but you don’t have to worry about bothering me so damn much. I told you already that I wouldn't have offered if I had a problem with it.” He looked around the living room for a moment before his eyes settled on his desk. He walked over to the crowded space, the computer monitor perpetually on, and grabbed a pad of sticky notes and a chisel-tipped sharpie marker, “Here.”

     He handed Connor the stationary who frowned at him slightly.

     “I don’t understand.”

     “They’re sticky notes.”

     “I know what they _are_ , Lieutenant…” Hank scoffed.

     “Yeah, yeah, well this way you can write a note when you decide to go wandering ass out in freezing weather since I can’t do that ‘send a message in my head and instantly get it’ bullshit.” Hank looked at him expectantly for a moment, pursing his lips when Connor simply stared.

     “I don’t have anywhere I need to go right now.”

     “Ugh, Jesus.” Hank rolled his eyes and moved to sit on the couch, “Well, it doesn’t matter what the hell you use ‘em for.    I just figured maybe you’d want to...I dunno, write something down from time to time without keeping, like, a diary or some shit.” Hank rubbed the back of his neck and Connor suddenly thought of the bathroom mirror.

     Hank used these notes to write things down when he was feeling distressed. He had seen them when he had come to his house as a machine, an he had decided--based on articles he’d read from his database--that he used them to cope with his depression. He had always thought it was an interesting habit; it was something personal--something specifically unique to Hank--that he used to help him get through the struggle of every day. And now he was sharing this with him.

     Connor smiled. It was the little things he did--the unmistakably, utterly illogical Hank-like things--that made him love him so much.

     “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He sat down next to him, still straight backed and stiff, but Hank seemed to relax a bit.

     “Not a big deal.” But to Connor, it was everything, “And stop calling me Lieutenant. It’s like you’ve got a damn stick up your ass as it is.” He stared down at the pad of unused notes as Hank grabbed the remote and lazily turned on the television. There wasn't much on aside from news, so eventually he settled on a station that was re-running old TV shows and turned the volume down until it was barely over a whisper.

     “Heh, I remember watching these as a kid,” Connor looked away from the pad of notes, glancing up at the screen and watched as it filled with stars and a vast, empty space of planets, a man’s voice barely audible until he turned up his auditory sensor sensitivity. But he could tell that Hank was dozing off, his speech drawn and his breathing slower as he spoke again, “There’s an android in this too, in’t that funny? Always did like the original series though…” He turned to look at him as he fell asleep, shoulders scrunched and head falling slightly to the side. Connor didn’t blame him; Hank hadn’t slept and he was probably exhausted from worrying.

     When he looked back at the TV, big blue letters panned across the screen: _STAR TREK: The Next Generation._ Connor smiled, looking back to him and decided to give him some room. He stood, gently grabbing Hank’s ankles and hoisting his legs onto the couch. He grabbed the blanket that was still discarded on the floor and draped it across his lap.

     “Sleep well, Hank.” He whispered, noticing the sweater and pants that were hastily draped across the back of the couch. He looked down at his Cyberlife uniform that was now wet from snow as well as the rain from even before his walk, and decided he needed to change. He grabbed them and quietly made his way into the bathroom.

     Immediately, he slipped his uniform off, folding it neatly and setting it on top of Hank’s dirty clothes in his hamper. He rolled his socks together and neatly set them on top of the rest. Once he pulled on the pants, which were a little big and required the strings to be tied, he slipped on the sweater. It, too, was a little large, but comfortably so, slipping a bit past his waist and being a bit baggy in the arms, but not so much as to cover his hands. He took a deep breath, looking curiously around the room as he settled.

     The first thing he noticed was the missing sticky note. He’d been so caught up in the idea of writing his own that his eyes immediately went to the ones that Hank had on his mirror. He frowned, noticing the crumpled up thing on the floor by the trash can, and instantly his vision faded into blue, his confusion causing his processor to automatically kick in to reconstruction as though it were a sort of second nature.

     He could see Hank’s outline exiting the room, and he backtracked, watching as it walked in reverse and put the note back on the mirror. He played the scene forwards again, the note flying towards the trash only to hit the side and fall to the floor.

     Connor cocked his head. What had Hank so frustrated? He rewinded even further until the figure was bent down, cabinet door open. He paused. Hank had been holding something. The notification ticked, furthering his investigation.

     His vision flooded back to normal, he bent down just as the image did and opened the small door. Connor froze.

     Behind knocked over shampoo bottles and still packaged soap bars, Hank’s revolver glinted solemnly. It was clear from the way everything was oddly set in place--some things too neat while others were purposefully knocked over--that he had been trying to hide it. Had he been trying to hide it from him? A wash of guilt came over him again, and he slammed the door, standing up straight and staring wide-eyed at his reflection in the mirror.

     He shouldn’t have been snooping.

     Connor sighed, sagging his shoulders as he stared into his own eyes, wondering what it was exactly that he hoped to find there. He turned his head, watching his LED as it circled around and around in a vibrant shade of yellow.

     He wasn’t ignorant; he knew exactly why Hank would hide it from him. Not that he’d try anything again--especially not while Hank was here or in his house, for that matter--but if his stress levels snuck up on him again, he wasn’t sure if he could stop himself. And now he knew where the gun was.

     And he couldn’t tell Hank that he knew because then he’d know that he was going through his things.

     He always seemed to mess everything up.

     Sumo knocked something over in the kitchen and Connor flinched. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, focusing instead on the light snores coming from the couch, his still heightened audio processors picking up Hank’s breathing and the low mumble of the television.

 ** _“Dr. Soong made me perfect in his first attempt,”_** it said, a softly anxious music playing in the background of the episode as Connor looked back to the mirror, **_“but he made me so completely human, the colonists became envious of me.”_**

     He frowned, the same prickling sensation forming in his eyes as he stared at every curve of his face, evey soft line, every freckle on his perfectly toned skin. His perfectly symmetrical face, his perfect brows, perfect lashes, perfect features.

 **_“You lived with the colonists?”_ ** He heard the TV question, his lungs feeling empty within his chassis no matter how many breaths he took.

**_“Until they petitioned Soong to make a more comfortable, less perfect android.”_ **

     “My appearance and my voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration.” He whispered to his reflection, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth as tears slowly slid down his face. He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that he was flawed, believe that he was human in that way, at least. But the longer he looked, the less it seemed true.

**_“Haven’t you noticed how easily I handle human speech? I use their contractions. For example, I say ‘can’t’ or ‘isn’t,’”_ **

     “Can’t,” Connor whispered desperately to the brown eyes that stared mechanically back at him, “Isn’t.”

**_“...and you say ‘cannot’ and ‘is not.’”_ **

     He wanted it to shut up, needed it to. He rushed into the living room, grabbed the remote from where it had slipped onto the floor, and he hit the power button, staring at the wall through the transparent screen that was left when the images faded. He fell to his knees, clutching the remote to his chest as his heart beat furiously against his chest.

     He looked back at the pad of untouched sticky notes and decided he needed to write. He needed to feel human.

     He uncapped the marker, taking a moment to stare at the thick point as he tried to hold the awkward thing in order to write. He decided to start with his name.

 _C O N N O R_ in perfect Cyberlife Sans. He stared at it, a swell of fear crawling up his throat. He crumpled it, throwing it under the table and starting over.

 _C o n n o r_  he tried again, but this time he forced himself to write the letters uneven and even slightly lopsided. He stared at it again, realising that he had copied Hank’s elegantly scribbled handwriting perfectly.

     “Shit,” He hissed quietly, crumpling that note too, and discarding it next to the other one. Sumo made his way to his side, curiously watching as he settled next to him, Connor too focused to notice. He started for a third time, closing his eyes as he drifted his hand across the note, software errors blinking behind his eyelids.

     When he opened them again, something stirred inside him when he read it, his eyes tracing the flow of a handwriting that he had never seen before: his own handwriting.

  
_I am Connor,_ it said in a beautifully messy, swirling, imperfect cursive, _And I am alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my fellow Trekkers. Hank is one of us now. >>>:3
> 
> Okay, but if any of you really do like Star Trek, which are you a fan of most: OG series/movies, Next Gen, Deep Space Nine, 2009/New movies (with Chris Pine)? Any of the other Trek stuff that I've never heard of? Lol I've really only seen the og series tbh and the newer movies and I have to say that the og is my fav.
> 
> Lol I'm jealous asf tho cuz my mom always talks how Wrath was the first movie she ever watched in Theaters and it's super cool but then I'm a lame-o seventeen year old that binged all seasons on Amazon Prime xD. My friend came over and she was like "wtf kind of prehistoric shit is this??" And I was like "Bitch, get out of my house rn." 
> 
> DeForest Kelly is still my #1 actor crush though. Well, besides Clancy... 
> 
> I haven't really seen much Next Gen besides the episode I legit randomly watched just to type this (whch is season 1 episode 12: Datalore btw) because I was in the car, typing on my google doc, trying to come up with an old TV show for Hank to watch when I realsied: 
> 
> Data is a fucking android. 
> 
> It was perfect and something I was familiar with and something Hank would have very well grown up with too so it worked flawlessly. Even more so that I found "Datalore" off the bat with Lore trying to make Data feel lesser and brag how flawlessly human he could be. 
> 
> DAMN though, I wish you guys could see this on docs because when he wrote out the notes, I used 3 different fonts and it really hits home how much it changes and it's so pretty and sudhfdhflkj
> 
>  
> 
> sorry I'll shut up now lol

**Author's Note:**

> You are amazing! You are valid! You are worth it!
> 
> I love you so, so much and you are so damn beautiful.
> 
> NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION HOTLINE (USA): 1-800-273-8255
> 
> If someone could add the prevention hotline or anything of the like for other areas of the world in the comments, I would really appreciate that <3 I tried looking it up but didn't find anything :0
> 
> If you are suffering and would feel more comfortable seeking help on the website then here you go, sweetheart. <3
> 
> https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
> 
> They offer more specific help on their site for Loss survivors, Disaster survivors, LGBTQ+, Youth, and much more. Don't suffer in silence just because you think you have to. <3 I've been there, okay? I know it seems dumb and pointless and none of their business anyway, but please. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to live. <33


End file.
